


Aftermath

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Series: A Healing Touch [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, Grief, M/M, Mourning, past major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 20:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14701299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: The aftermath of a promise fulfilled: a soul in tumult.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt: "dusty yellow, the gloaming and waiting for someone - for your favourite pairing. Thank you so much, I hope you're having a lovely day. Cheers! (◕ᴥ◕)"

For a moment, there was a certain kind of peace. He lay suspended in it, somewhere between drunk and dying, falling, twisting, hurting. It invaded his bones with its silence, burrowing between the lyrium scars to steal the breath from his lungs and clench around his heart.

For a long, painful moment, there was a way to pretend that there was a measure of normalcy, of something right in the world. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see him - perhaps cooking up a mess in the kitchen, making noises about how they needed to go to the market more often, but Anders always worked too hard and Fenris still had a proclivity to drink his meals as often as he ate them. Maybe he was in the bath, taking a well-earned soak to wash the Darktown stink off him, to preen those pretty feathers he loved so much.

And maybe, like the first time, he was just waiting at the door, waiting for Fenris to just let him in.

Fenris crawled farther into the pallet he had made on the library floor, a mess of blankets and pillows, just enough softness to protect him from the hole in the ceiling he still hadn’t fixed, but had been planning to, once they had the time. Any moment now, Anders would walk through, a pastry in hand, and -

No. He wouldn’t.

Long fingers reached outside the nest of bed clothes for the bottle, the memory of the lyrium brand that had been burnt into Anders’ brow seared into his inner eye. He saw it every time he closed his eyes, how Justice had looked, silenced and bound in Anders’ skin - a ragged remnant of what they once were, a mockery of everything they had been.

Justice’s eyes burned into his mind with every blink, the warm, amber light of Anders scorched out by the Templars. _“I fear he may have broken under the care of the Templars,”_ the spirit said, weeks ago, just before Fenris -

Fenris clacked the bottle painfully against his teeth in his haste to fill the void that came with the memory. He choked, the unfamiliar alcohol - whisky? Maker’s balls, when did the pirate have time to give him whisky? -  burning his sinuses as he coughed and sputtered. He drank it down, roiling in his empty stomach, before tossing the empty bottle outside his makeshift bed toward the door to where he knew she was waiting for - for something.

“ _Get. Out_.” The growl was as much from the drink as it was from the disuse. He hadn’t spoken to… any of them, outside of his fever-drunk dreams.

Light footsteps padded toward him and he curled further into himself, his hands wrapped around his ribs like he could hold himself together, if he had just enough force. He could hear her sit near him - if she was smart, she would be outside striking distance, but if she was smarter, she wouldn’t be here at all, he mused darkly.

She cleared her throat. “I know you don’t really want to see anyone right now, but I figured even drinking silently with a friend is better than drinking alone. Plus, it’s been weeks, and no one’s seen you. Your wine collection had to be dwindling, and I was right.”

“Isabela, I… get out.”

“No, Fen. It’s been weeks, and you’re holed up in this decrepit old mansion, and…“ She sighed. “We miss him, too, you know. He was… he was a part of the group. One of us.”

_And now he’s gone._

Fenris closed his eyes in the darkness of his blanket cocoon. If he tried very, very hard, he could almost feel Anders’ hand on his shoulder when Isabela cautiously reached out.

“I’m sorry, Fenris. I know neither of you expected it but… It was almost sweet, wasn’t it?” She leaned back from him, withdrawing her hand after a moment.

“Sweet?” he growled, half incredulous and half murderous. His body tensed, swimming in the blankets as he fought for air, for an anchor, now that his world was burned to the ground, and she thought it was sweet.

“Yeah. You two were always at each other’s throats, for years, when really, it was -”

“Get out, get out!  _Get out!_ ” He almost howled, the words tearing from his throat. “You don’t know anything about it! Don’t presume you can come here and tell me anything about it!” He thrashed in the blanket nest, the world swaying around him as he tore the fabrics from his face.“You didn’t, you didn’t…”

He glared at her even as he choked on a sob, tears pricking at his eyes as the gloaming pressed in through the open windows and ruined ceiling of the library. Isabela only lay stretched out beside him, an arm’s length away, and stared at him. “You didn’t…” he tried again, unsure of what he was trying to say. What, love Anders? Kill him? Make him fear for his life, for years, before suddenly it went sideways and surprised them both? 

She surprised him by scooting closer, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder again, and moved even closer still when he only tensed at the contact. Isabela slowly pressed herself against him, bringing the blankets up to cover his arms before she pulled him, tense and unyielding, into her embrace.

“I didn’t know him like you do, pet, that’s true,” she murmured into his hair. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care for him, or for you.” She stroked her hand over his blanket-bound arm slowly, soothingly. “But you’re one of us misfits, and we look out for each other.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, to the comfort she tried to radiate, to the way she prodded and poked. “Why are you here, pirate?” He couldn’t fight the weariness that permeated his voice, his muscles, his bones.

“You need a hug, and I drew the short straw. And Maker, Fenris, someone needs to convince you to take a bath, so apparently here I am.”

He moved to crawl out of her embrace but she only rolled with him, pulling his back against her chest. “No, you get to hug it out. We’re not gonna let you brood alone anymore. We figured it’s been long enough, you need to have people around.”

“Is that it.”

“Hawke… may have been worried.”

He huffed, but didn’t say anything.

“And I may have been a touch concerned. And Varric, too. Even Merrill. We’re all worried for you.”

“Don’t bother,” he grit out. Just the thought of them all pressing into the jagged, open wounds of him made him ache.

“Fenris.” Her voice was sharp and echoed in his ears, and he struggled against the strength of her arms holding him to her. She wound her leg around his, pinning him with blankets and longer limbs, and he was too drunk to fight but he needed to do something and so he fought, straining, clawing at the blankets and her arms, thrashing against her.

“Fenris, damn it, would you -  _fuck you,_  that hurt!”

An elbow found its mark, somewhere, and he rolled away in her surprise, just a few inches afforded to his escape. His tattoos lit, casting the room in broken, blue-white light where they were exposed by the blanket.

Isabela stilled behind him. “You know what, fuck you, then. Be miserable and alone, you broody bastard.” She got up, all grace as she swore and fumbled to her feet in the dark. “Here. Thought I’d be nice and give this to you, but I’m just gonna give it. Even if you apparently don’t need friends to care about you.”

Something, cool and silky, landed on his cheek. He growled and snatched it in hand to crumple it in his fist and he stilled as she stomped out of the room.

“I hope you wrap it around your throat and choke, you jerk,” she called down the hallway. “Come find us when you’re ready to be a person again - we’re waiting.”

It was a scarf, a dusty, dusky yellow-gold, soft and worn between his fingers. He could see Anders’ hair in its coloring and the tears made his eyes swim and he never, never wanted to feel this weak.

Fenris sobbed into its fine weave, crushing it against his face, winding the length around his fists.


End file.
